6 days until the the frog comes again. Perhaps I should’ve scheduled it on the New Moon, but moons, crystals, magic, all that stuff is just superstitious gibberish. At least, it seems to be anyway. Nonetheless, the frog is most definitely a savior on a cross, so to speak. The frog is very real, & the frog abides. The sweet sleep has to end, as yours truly must navigate this 3d prison planet with clear mind & strong body. Things are on the precipice, & each day that goes by, we get closer, & closer, & closer…to what though? What are we getting closer to? Death, that’s one thing, but that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m thinking maybe there was some kind of event we all incarnated to bear witness to. Maybe not. Maybe it is all for not. Just like the rotting swamp gas stench, it’s all just decay, death beginning immediately upon birth, like a once-flooded coastal wasteland, but what happens the other way? So many questions, & the worst part is that we all have the answers, only we’ve lost our memories, we’ve lost our “higher” abilities, & we’ve lost our minds, in many cases. Some don’t seem to have a mind, like real-life, real-time NPCs, so I guess they have nothing to lose, but I digress. Just like shutting off a vacuum cleaner. Nonetheless, the 3-year stint of of the silent assassin ends Monday. No more auto-pilot, no more days in laze, the purgatorial penance dawns on 6 days from now. The end? Or…the end?
The salad days are long dead & gone, & one comes to a time in their respective lives where they realize the party is over, the Great Party of being young is done. There’s nothing but moldy crushed bits of plastic red cups on the floor, something smoldering in the kitchen, & everyone else is gone, been gone, long gone, so what will you do? You weren’t supposed to get this far, but you have, so now what? Live in the party house forever, sleeping on couch cushions on a floor, until the roof caves in? Can’t just wait for the societal collapse now can we? How does one prepare for a “future” in this wicked world of debt slavery? So many questions, so many questions. Until next time dear readers, when the party ends, it’s over, & it’s time to move on. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
It’s sad when another face from the televised latch-key kid indoctrination of my youth, dies. Yes, that’s right, Pee-Wee Herman, who’s real name was Paul Reubens, has passed away from a long private battle with cancer. Bummer you went out that way Paul; it sounds terrifyingly painful, particularly the mental part, & to know you’re going to die when your malignant cancer becomes terminal…oh man, that has got to be a total mind-fuck. Cancer has become more prevalent as the global population grows, which is obvious, considering much greater numbers of people living on this God-forsaken planet, but on top of that, it’s statistically more common if you compare the number of cancer patients to the population, as in more people then ever are getting cancer. Why, why all this cancer?
Maybe it’s because they poison everything with carcinogenic chemicals? Could that be why? Could it be because they poison the food, poison the water, even poison the air? No matter where you go, minus the millions of unexplored off-grid places, there’s something there to poison you, especially in the once great USA, now deemed the USSA, the United Socialist States of America. That’s right, & America is the worst, especially with the food. Actually, they put fluoride in the water & who knows what else, but fluoride alone, is bad enough. Most people drink it up, every day, with zero inclination as to what they’re even drinking. I drink bottled and/or filtered water myself, & do various things to make sure my pineal gland continues to become uncalcified. Didn’t know that? You didn’t know that fluoridated water calcifies your pineal gland, the “seat of your soul?” Okay, well then click that link & inform yourself.
Nonetheless, before I divert to the exit ramp & drive this article home, I’ll give one more shoutout to the great Paul Reubens, AKA Pee-Wee Herman, as many people knew him. Yikes, can you imagine the street encounters with fans once he became famous with his show Pee-Wee’s Playhouse? That must’ve been a nightmare for him, with all those people doing the Pee-Wee laugh, dancing on their toes, reciting lines from his show, what a drain that must have been. He could never go out without that happening I bet. He was arrested, if you remember, for jerking off in an adult theatre. Weird that he got arrested, because isn’t that what men do when they go to such places? I’ve never heard of anyone being arrested for it, except Pee-Wee of course. Oh yes, that’s another one, everyone calling him Pee-Wee, instead of his real name Paul. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be I suppose, right?
Until next time dear readers, be glad you can walkabout without hordes of people hounding you & begging you to do your tricks, like a dog. Be glad you don’t have a spotlight on you 24/7, because that kind of anxiety is astronomical, & that’s why many Hollywood types turn to drugs & self-destruction. They simply want to have a bit of normalcy, if only for a moment, but once you’re trapped inside that “celebrity bubble,” any chance of a “normal” life is over. You can only find that again if you leave Hollywood, quit acting, & go off-grid. Most would rather stay & fight for that proverbial role, saying & doing whatever they can to make it, even sacrificing loved ones so that they themselves can level up in that dark world. It’s dark, such a dark place, so be glad, be thankful you have a light int he darkness. Whether or not it’s a stadium light, or candle light, you are creating the fire, the light, because there can always be light in the darkness, but never vice-versa. So sayeth FisH™🎏
Getting older, it’s something we all must do, despite an eternal soul, an eternally youthful soul, as these fragile meat suits eventually whither like a fallen fig, & then it ends. Do you remember where you were before? Do you recall this existence when you dream? No, you don’t, at least yours truly doesn’t, so I can only surmise that when I exhale that last breath, & all the jelly beans in the jar have been eaten, I won’t recall any of this. That’s a bit disconcerting, is it not? Geez, all this time, while we exist within this 3d matrix prison planet, then just POOF, gone, as if it never happened. All those anxious anxieties, all the stressful stressing, the short days & the long nights, the magic of music, all the treasures collected, all of it, just gone, as if it never happened at all. Of course, I don’t know for sure that I won’t remember, as I am simply basing this bittersweet assumption on the notion that I do not recall where I was prior to being born here, & as I said, in dreams, this “life,” if one can boldly call it that, simply has no relevance. No, in dreams, we go to some other place, some outer-dimensional realm, that I have feverishly & desperately attempted to map, before the recollections of whatever I dreamt began to fade like a sunset as soon as my tired eyes awaken back here in the waking world, so to speak.
Is this life a purgatory of sorts? Is it a test, or perhaps a punishment, like a Saturday detention for acting the class clown for the sake of some cheap laughs from the other students? If it is the former, then what are we being tested for? Prior incarnations that we cannot recall? Hard to pass a test, if you don’t know what the grading system is, or what you’ve done to earn said testing, isn’t it? if it’s the latter, how can we be punished for something we have no recollection of doing? The Universe, in its perfect design, must know what it’s doing, right? If so, then I suppose there can be no better manner of leveling up one’s soul to a state sufficient enough to please the Great Creator, than this, a life of karmic chance, holding onto a candlelight in the darkest of night, waiting for the dawn to come again, for Source to shine its omnipresent glow upon a sullen face, drawn & wrinkled after a lifetime of comic tragedy. We gain, only to lose it all, for we take nothing with us, except the light within, that Divine spark, given to us when we breathe in our first breath from a God that appears to forsake us all right after. At least, for yours truly, He hath forsaken me, but only because I forsake Him, long long ago, screaming through the trees, like a howling banshee, so young, but so old in the body of a child. Why did I do that? Why did I do that?
I have no answer, & I gave no offer of an olive branch, for I only gave unto myself, with no thought of creation, only savage destruction. It’s easy to destroy, the darkness makes it easy, so simple to facilitate destruction. One must only light a fire, & watch the dry forest burn into a maelstrom of tornadic infernos, yes, to destroy, is as easy as the finger to the match-tip, but to create, now that takes something, doesn’t it? Creation is a combination of dedication, passion, & strength, the strength to wield a fiery sword of righteous virtue, for the sake of manifesting what was once not in front of you. To manifest, is only the beginning, & then one must embrace perseverance, to watch in wonder, as the tree grows from sapling to a mighty oak, branches stretching toward the heavens, as an homage to the Creator Himself, roots firm in the earth, needled arms outstretched to the Sun. The tree must be nurtured, tendered, kept clean from the many bugs & parasites & invaders, come to destroy what one has birthed. The destroyers, those killer destroyers, as I spoke of, relentlessly chasing the innocence, burrowing in every exposed pore on the soft skin, like a cancer, these rotten decayers. Oh yes, it is as a task given to a new employee, to destroy, but to create, takes the seasoned hand of a master woodworker.
My my, my mastery of the hand has evolved into some new creature, a creature that once crawled, yet now runs, like the poor man that ran the first marathon, only to deliver his message, then die at the feet of those who were waiting for the mail to arrive on time. I suppose I must write write write, writing as much as I can whittle, into my own great tree, like the initials of young lovers, before a time comes where the ease of which these words word themselves, leaves me, & my hands turn from red to blue to at last grey, then back to bones, & then to dust. What a self-surreality, to ponder the leaving of the suit, this suit of pumping blood & church organs, pipes to the ceiling, bellowing out life & love & sacred geometry, imperfectly perfected in the image of a Creator we never see, yet heard in the whip of a wind that always blows the trees, dancing side to side as they do. The time has now come once again to wrap this up. Until next time dear readers, find a tree, your own Giving Tree, rest your bare feet upon its roots, touch the tree, ground yourself, become One with the Earth, & the Creator, Source. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
For all of you, & for none of you at all…🎏
“Find yourself a Giving Tree, & become one again with Source.” Fish F Fish 🎏
I’ll give anyone $1000 who knows what the title “Salad Days” alludes to? Of course, if you do know, that $1000 will be an I-O-U, but nonetheless, most people wouldn’t even come close to guessing an answer. It’s a Shakespearian idiom, & it refers to that shining time of one’s youth, when you’re full of vigor & innocence & life seemed impossibly possible. For yours truly, it was skating the city streets on an island in the South Pacific, all night long, all alone, just riding my board below the all-night neon lights, hair blowing in the wind, the industrial smell of the city stuck in my big Grecian nose. Oh that smell, that savory stink, of concrete & underground sewers & shops that were only open at night, with wafting fragrances of 24-hour food joints occasionally mixing in, I loved it. It’s a smell you can only smell in a city, & if I close my eyes, I can recall it all, particularly the feeling, oh that sweet sweet feeling, that free-falling feeling of freedom. No thoughts of money, or work, or payments past due. No anxieties about the responsibility of life, no God-damned stress, no nothing, but the bliss of being not only young, but young at heart.
Yeah, those were my salad days, or rather, my salad nights, & as hard as I try, I can’t think of a time when I was happier. Just me, my skateboard, my empty pockets, the night, the city, the salt in the air, before my blood became salty with the wicked ways of this savage world. Sure, I had troubles, deep-rooted troubles from disturbing events that plagued me in my earliest years, but those were buried, buried deep, & as long as my wheels rolled, & my axles ground, & my board slid, none of it mattered. Those dark events wouldn’t resurface until much later in life, & as far as was concerned, all I had was the night, & it was all I ever needed. I wish I could ride those streets for an eternity, the same streets, and/or some dreamscaped sculpted version of streets similar, just riding & riding, dopamine flowing through my pumping legs, all night through the long night with the full moon high, an endless night in an unending race to nowhere. I had such skills then too, good enough to never fall unless I was trying something new, but if I was just cruising, I could stay on my board like I was glued to it.
Nowadays, I’d bust my ass just getting on one. Surprisingly, the muscle memories are still there, STILL there, but the body & the brain just don’t add up anymore. Had I kept up with it, as is with most, I’d be as good as I was, & I could still ride through the city at night, but again, as is with most, the crushing reality of real life landed on my face like a jumbo jet, & all the everyday struggles of these unescapable responsibilities that come with growing up, overtook my trip. I still have a skateboard, but the dust on the grip tape sticks to it better than I can, & I look at it sometimes, with a motley crew of cursing inner voices, beckoning me, laughing at me, tormenting me, as I cannot go back, ever, back to that time, that magical time, except in my mind. I’ve even had a dream now & again of being back on that skateboard, back in that sweetly stinking city, back in the twilight, as if it COULD be forever, & then the alarm goes off, & I wake up to go back to the timecard, punching that proverbial clock, like the elevator drones in the movie Metropolis, on the slow march to a slow death. The only salad left in these days is the soggy one that you take to your lunch break, the one you’re barely even able to finish before the prison bell clang clang clangs to get back to work.
It’s so surreal to remember your past; it’s almost as if you weren’t even there in a way, just watching. Your entire life, from this fleeting moment right now, back to your youth, just a memory, like a film reel, & it’s just gone, gone forever. Of course these days, we can record everything, record the past, to relive it on our phones & computers, which makes it that much bittersweet when you look on those times, doesn’t it? Quite a remarkable process, isn’t it?…capturing the past, on a little box that you can carry around, all summed up in gigabytes. The amount of said gigabytes, is how much of the past you can store, & most people don’t think twice about how God damn remarkable that is, just to be able to do that. Capturing time, trapping time in a box, to relive whenever you want, with the flick of a wrinkling finger, what a world, what a strange & fascinating world, this world of technology. It’s a shame that the powers-that-be use it against us, isn’t it? If only the human race could all share in the relatively unlimited abundance we all deserve, how far we could go. What a shame, & until next time dear readers, be sure to live, LIVE your time, instead of putting it all into a box for later. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
For all of you, & for none of you at all…🎏
“Live your time, instead of capturing it for another day.” Fish F Fish🎏
Remember that show, & the song that went with it? The Children’s Television Network show 3-2-1 Contact, that ran from 1980-1992. Don’t ask me but out of nowhere, the theme song is now the earworm that crawled into my brain, & coincidentally, tomorrow is 3/21. Weird, right? Haven’t thought of this theme song in decades then POOF, out of nowhere, so I decided to write about it, since we ARE in fact counting down to the big day tomorrow. “3-2-1 Contact, is the secret, is the moment, when everything happens…,” kinda spooky, right? A Trumpy Tuesday of ridiculousness, centered around the now infamous upcoming Trump arrest, supposedly. What time is this going down I wonder? What will the markets do? Will the Earth stop spinning? REEEEEEEEEEE…honk honk honk. Grab your popcorn Fishheads, because the show is starting soon, only 28 minutes left in the countdown until midnight where I am, & then 3/21 officially begins, tick-tocking closer & closer to…well, we’ll have to just wait & see with our proverbial thumbs up our bumbums I suppose, right?..isn’t that the saying? Who thought of that anyway? It’s fucking disgusting. “Don’t stand around with your thumb up your butt,” I mean seriously, who was standing around with their dirty thumb up their dirty ass when that phrase manifested itself? Why would anyone ever do that? Ugh, so nasty, such awful imagery. Let’s move on from the stinky thumbs.
Honestly, I have no idea what to expect today for Trumpy Tuesday. That’s what I just decided to call it, just now, since every news station in the country is gearing up to be broadcasting nothing but Trump the entire day, & probably the rest of the week, perhaps longer if he DOES, in fact, get handcuffed like a criminal, by actual criminals. However, I’m leaning towards a big nothing-burger; there’s a lot of hype, that more often-than-not, turns out to be a wickless dud. What are you expecting? Protests? Riots? No one on Team MAGA can truly “protest,” because Feds mix in with the red hats & infiltrate their organized peaceful protests to incite destruction & violence. Looking directly at you Ray Epps. January 6th was arguably all Federal agents who were the provocateurs, antagonizing the situation, & encouraging regular people to go inside, where they knew they’d be identified, so they could later be arrested. Many of them were, & many of them are STILL in jail, & for what? NOTHING…they are political prisoners, much like you’d find in some 3rd world shithole country, not here in the USA. Unfortunately, we are now the USSA, the United Socialist States of America, & this rogue government has weaponized their alphabet agency hit squads like the CIA & FBI to document, harass, arrest, & even kill American citizens. It’s a silent coup, but not to me, because I heard it coming a mile & ½ away before everyone else did. No one listens, & if the MAGA masses go to NYC to protest, it’s going to somehow become a January 6th 2.0 event. The Honey Traps are set, waiting for those red hats, & if you’re a Trumpeter who’s thinking of attending one of these “protests,” DON’T…do NOT fall into the trap little bees.
Yep, the Feds & their respective alphabet goon squad neo-gestapo foot soldiers for George Soros are a cancer, & the cancer has infected the American body to such an extent, I’m not sure it can be removed, much less repaired. Even if we somehow got rid of all the corrupted cancer cells, the damage might already be done. Not to mention, if we beat these globalist pigs somehow, they will try to destroy everything they can on the way down. They won’t go without taking us all with them to hell, because they could care less about us, the herd, they only care abut themselves, their ilk, their dynasties, & their place on the power pyramid. Evil, soulless, psychopathic scum, fighting each other like hungry hyenas behind the scenes for more & more power.
Besides all this, it’s almost 3-2-1 contact time to 3/21, 5 minutes left to go, as I type, & you read this in what will be your present & my past. I just had a random thought; isn’t it bizarre how we “film” things? We essentially capture time, capture it in a little chip now, capturing life itself when you think about it, captured, & we can watch our pasts, over & over again. It’s really something when you stop & think about it, yet everyone takes for granted these amazing things we’ve done. For instance, the video I linked above, the theme song & intro video for the show 3-2-1 Contact, was created over 40 years ago, & I can watch it the same as I did in elementary school, singing along like the little kid me did so long ago. Anytime we want, we can watch the past, it’s just so incredible if you stop & ponder it. People don’t stop & look around enough, do they? Speaking of which, it’s time to STOP, & finish this Foozer, because this sleepy fish needs some rest before the big day coming up. Until next time dear readers, it’s now 12:01 AM, March 21, 2023, & should something happen on this day that has enough social dynamo to significantly alter the course of the zeitgeist, I’ll see you on the other side. Do NOT hold your breath though, because as I said earlier, I’d say 90% of the time these dated dates of pre-predicted infamy turn into nothing-burgers. We’ll be there soon enough, as midnight has come & gone, & 3/21 has begun. So sayeth FisH™…🎣
For all of you, & for none of you at all…🐡
“If you only have one egg, you better make sure your basket doesn’t have a hole in it.” Fish F Fish🎏
EaT~aLL~YouR~FisH™ 